April Munday

by His Ransom

  “Yes. Even loving you and knowing that I am loved. You betrayed my love and marriage to Ralf is the price we both must pay.”

  “It is too high a price for you. I deserve any punishment that you or your father can give me, but you do not deserve this.” It was the first time he had shown any passion since the morning her father had brought him from his dungeon.

  “Do you think I care?” she snapped. “I would have defied my father for you, but you…”

  “Had to know whether you truly were virtuous. You came to me in the night, Rosamunde, what was I to think?” It was a plea for understanding. For the first time she saw on his face the pain that he was suffering. He was finding this as difficult as she was.

  Rosamunde’s breath caught in her throat. “You touched me and I enjoyed it. I should not have done so, but I did. It was only a kiss; that was all I intended. You did the rest and I let you.”

  “Then we are both fools, Rosamunde, for though I would call back every moment because they caused you pain, still I would savour them for the pleasure they gave you.”

  Tears began to fall down her cheeks. Richard made a brief movement as if to wipe them away, but his hand fell back to his side.

  “Thank you,” she whispered as she turned away into her pavilion.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Richard slept while Rosamunde ate her evening meal. There was little chance of anyone coming upon them at that time and Guy set reliable guards around her. When the camp settled down for the night Guy would wake him and Richard would keep guard over Rosamunde, standing just inside her pavilion. Rosamunde had protested at first, but it had not been a strong protest. Despite their differences, she had been inclined to take his advice since he had been proved right about the day she had gone hawking. Richard did not really expect any trouble. They were a large company and Sir Walter was dead. It was not to be expected that such a large and well-armed group would be attacked by the outlaws who increasingly besieged the king’s highways. It was revenge that he feared. Sir Walter might have had relatives who considered his actions acceptable, if not praiseworthy, and they might think it profitable to waylay even such a strong party if they had Sir Walter’s men at arms available. He did not know who Sir Walter’s heir was, but the man might think he could do worse than follow his predecessor’s example.

  He had noticed, with some satisfaction, that Guy had slowed their pace considerably and they were covering fewer miles each day. Although he would still have to say goodbye to Rosamunde in a few days, their growing closeness meant that those days would be more pleasant for both of them. There was no hope that he could win her back; she had told him that. She was promised to Ralf and she would marry Ralf and Ralf, alone of the three of them, would be happy, if he had any sense at all.

  Rosamunde had also told him that she loved him. Nothing was more important than that. For many years he had told himself that only a fool craved love, now he was content to be a fool. He loved Rosamunde and she loved him. They could not be together as he would wish, but he would always have her love. He had not destroyed it. He had been stupid, but she had forgiven him. She would marry another, but she would continue to love him.

  Richard assumed that he himself would eventually marry, but it would not be for love. He loved Rosamunde. He could not love another. The love that he had felt for Louise had turned to hate, because she had not turned out to be the woman that he loved, but Rosamunde was completely and wholly herself. He loved her and she would always be deserving of that love. But he could not dwell on it. He could not forget that she was to share another’s bed and she would never be his.

  Despite this resolution, Rosamunde filled his dreams. She laughed with him and smiled at him. She kissed him and stroked his wounded face. He dreamt that she came to him one night as he guarded her in her pavilion. He touched her as he had touched her that night in his cell and they undressed one another as they kissed. In his dream the pavilion was somehow lit by moonlight and he could see her body as her clothes dropped away. Rosamunde smiled and encouraged him and stroked his hair. They touched and kissed and gave in to their mutual desire and he finally entered her, but the cry as he took her virginity was too long and too loud. It turned into a wild scream of pain.

  He came to his senses, fully awake, but the scream continued and it was not Rosamunde.

  “Help! Rosamunde!”

  Richard was on his feet, running into the curtained-off area of her pavilion where Rosamunde ate alone. She was lying slumped over the table while Margaret stood beside her, screaming and shouting.

  Guy entered behind Richard and started to question Margaret while Richard examined Rosamunde. Her eyes were vacant, her forehead was beaded with sweat and her face twisted in pain. There was a mess on the table where she had vomited up most of the meal.

  Richard quickly examined the contents of the meal. Poisonous mushrooms! Someone in the kitchen had been careless and because of that Rosamunde would die.

  “No, my love!” he shouted as he took her cold hand in his.

  “Do you know what’s wrong?” asked Guy. He was quite calm and Richard took a deep breath, taking his lead from the younger man. This was not a time to panic. Rosamunde could be saved, but only if he controlled himself and did not give in to his fear.

  “It is these,” he pointed at Rosamunde’s trencher, “I don’t know what they are called in English. They look like ordinary mushrooms, but are poisonous. You must make sure no one else eats them.”

  “And Rosamunde?”

  “There is no cure.” It was Margaret who spoke. “If they are death caps, they are fatal. But it can’t be, she has reacted so quickly.” Tears began to roll down her cheeks. “It will be a slow and painful death.”

  “Then we should make her comfortable.” Guy moved towards Rosamunde.

  “No!” Margaret and Guy stared at him. Richard swallowed and regained his composure. “By all means make her comfortable, but there may be a cure.”

  “If Margaret doesn’t know it…” Guy was doubtful and Richard could not blame him. Margaret had a reputation in the castle and Richard almost doubted himself as he denied her, but he would do it to save Rosamunde.

  “We need two separate herbs, one that will purge and one that will heal. It is early in the year, but they grow in places like this. I can find them.” Richard knew he must look desperate, even mad, to Guy, but they must try everything. He knew that he had spoken too fast and that Guy could barely understand him. He took another breath. He knew what was at stake here and he had to be sure that Margaret and Guy understood him.

  “You know what you’re looking for?” Guy asked.

  Richard nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

  “Then go.”

  Richard hesitated. Guy and Margaret stared at him. He trusted them and he did not want them to share in the sin he was about to commit. He wasn’t sure, though, that it should be his choice.

  Margaret laid a hand on his shoulder. It was shaking, but her voice was calm. “Do not fear to kill her. She is dead if you do nothing.”

  Now he had to explain. “The purge will kill the child.”

  “What child?” Guy was confused and looked from Richard to Margaret as if she might know the answer to this riddle.

  Margaret patted Richard’s shoulder. “There is no child. What you saw was caused by the rigours of the last few weeks and this journey.”

  Even though he was pleased to know that Rosamunde was not with child, Richard could not miss the blame in Margaret’s voice. It was his fault that Rosamunde had suffered. No wonder she had seemed so much better these last few days.

  “I understand. I will go now and bring back what she needs.”

  And Richard went, taking a lantern from the entrance to Rosamunde’s pavilion. He was not certain of success. Rosamunde might have eaten too many death caps; he might not be able to gather enough of the right herb to purge her properly; the purge might kill her. He might not be able to remember the recipe for the cure
.

  It was not something he had ever made himself. He had a half-forgotten memory of something his father’s herbalist had said years ago, but this was Rosamunde’s only chance. What he did remember was that the mushrooms caused a slow and painful death and he could not allow that to happen to Rosamunde. He had to hurry; it would be difficult enough to find the plants in the darkening twilight; it would be almost impossible once it was fully dark.

  He searched through the woods carefully. He would not allow fear for Rosamunde to make him hurry and miss the signs he was looking for. Her life depended on him alone and he would not let her down again. He found the leaves he was looking for, but they were small. It was early in the year; they would not reach their full potency until summer. He would have to gather as much as he could, then his judgement and Margaret’s must be exercised when he came to make the purge.

  When he returned, Rosamunde had been undressed and put to bed. His relief that she was still alive was tempered by her pallor. She was not far from death and she was aware of nothing that was happening around her. Her breathing was laboured and shallow. She writhed in pain and occasional gasps, that Richard assumed were screams of pain that she was already too weak to give expression to, escaped her lips.

  Margaret was calmer now and helped him to prepare the purge. It took too long for Richard, but eventually it was ready.

  “This is to make her vomit,” he explained to Guy, as he lifted Rosamunde gently from the bed and sat her in his lap. Margaret stood beside him, ready with a bowl. Rosamunde could not hold herself up, did not even seem aware of the need to do so, but Richard supported her with his chest and held her head while he administered the purge. Its effects were immediate and dramatic. When it was over, Margaret removed the bowl and Richard poured what he hoped was the cure into Rosamunde’s mouth. She swallowed thirstily. Unwilling to relinquish his hold on her and relieved that the purge had not killed her straightaway, Richard held her in his lap.

  “Should she not be in bed now?” asked Guy nervously.

  “No. If the purge has not finished its work and she vomits when she is lying down she will choke and die.”

  Guy nodded. Richard really did not care whether or not the younger man believed him. If this was his last chance to hold Rosamunde, he would take it. He prayed that she would know that it was he who held her and would take some comfort from the knowledge.

  She shifted in his arms and he wondered if he had made the purge too strong, but she settled again. He placed a hand on her forehead. It felt warmer, but not feverish. The purge, at least had done some good.

  Margaret returned.

  “At least you had the sense not to put her back into bed,” she grumbled. “That was a powerful purge.”

  “It should be safe enough, soon. See, her colour is returning.”

  “That might not be a good sign.” Margaret was slow to hope.

  Richard knew that it might also be a sign that the end was near, but he had hoped to calm Guy’s fears. The rest of the escort would be guided by his actions and now Richard would rather have Guy believe that Rosamunde could be cured than be the unwitting cause of alarm throughout the camp.

  “Richard,” Rosamunde muttered, twisting herself in his lap and trying to put her arms around his neck. She was too weak and she let them fall.

  “That’s a good sign,” he said and believed it, as he stood to return her to her bed. There was no point pretending she needed to sit up now.

  “Not if you’re Sir Ralf,” muttered Guy, as he turned to leave.

  Richard did not bother to hide the gentle kiss he placed on Rosamunde’s cheek. Margaret knew what he felt for Rosamunde. She could scold him all she liked, but there could be no blame for Rosamunde. For several minutes he and Margaret watched her. Rosamunde lay still now and her breathing gradually deepened, until he realised that she was asleep. He placed his hand on her forehead again. She was still warm and she had kept her colour.

  “You sleep now,” said Margaret. “You can watch her when it’s light.”

  Richard made to protest, but Margaret silenced him with a look. “I will wake you, if necessary.”

  Richard knew that it would be sensible for him to sleep, but he knew that he would not; Rosamunde might need him. He moved from the stool beside Rosamunde’s bed and stretched out across the entrance to her pavilion. He positioned himself so that he could see her even in the gloom that Margaret produced by blowing out most of the candles. He spent the night watching her shadowy form as she struggled to breathe. When Margaret started to stir in the morning he pretended to sleep and Margaret shook his shoulder. He went to Rosamunde’s bed and examined her closely. Rosamunde still slept, her breathing was steady, her skin still pale, but she was no longer close to death and when Margaret had gone to break her fast, leaving Richard alone with her charge, there was no one to see the happy kiss that he placed on Rosamunde’s lips for a brief moment.

  The light was too bright and the noise too loud and her whole body hurt, but Rosamunde knew that she could not stay asleep any longer. She was supposed to be going somewhere, to do something important, but the effort to remember where or why was too great. All she knew was that she must see Richard. She knew he would be nearby. He was always close when she was in trouble and she was sure she was in trouble now, although she had no idea what trouble it might be. Perhaps she was sick again. That would explain the pain she felt.

  “Rosamunde!” His voice was low, but urgent. And there was something else in it. Relief? Had she somehow made him happy? She felt better and thought she smiled, but she could not feel her face and was not sure that it responded to her instruction. If Richard was happy, all must be well. She had been right, though; he was near. His voice was soft, but happy and it was like a healing balm to her. He was so close she could touch him if she reached out, but she could not move her arm, however much she tried. And she did want to touch him. She groaned at the effort. It hurt so much, but she tried again; she must touch him.

  “Do not try to move, my love. You have been very ill.”

  So that was it. That was why she hurt so much and why she could not move. She had been right about the trouble. But Richard was with her and all would be well. She felt him squeeze her hand. Had he been holding it? She could not remember him taking it. Perhaps he had been holding it while she slept. She thought there might be some reason why he should not be holding her hand, but she must be wrong, because nothing could be more natural than that he should do so. Secure in the knowledge that he was beside her she fell asleep again.

  Rosamunde woke suddenly. “Richard?” He had left her; she knew he had. Why had he left her alone in the dark? As soon as she opened her eyes she closed them again, then narrowed them to slits so that the light would not hurt so much.

  “I am here, Rosamunde. Margaret is just coming to sit with you now.” She took a deep breath and stretched out her empty hand, waiting for him to take it. She was surprised that it obeyed her command. For some reason she had half thought it would not. Then she remembered – she was ill. That was why Richard had been holding her hand before. But he was not holding it now. That was why it was empty – he was not holding it in his. She felt tears of loss spring into her closed eyes. She dare not blink or the light would surely blind her.

  “Rosamunde, Margaret will sit with you.” There was a note of warning in his low voice. She could not see his face clearly. Had she been struck blind? Was that what her illness was? She did not know and did not really care. She wanted Richard; nothing else mattered. She finally blinked away the tears of frustration, which were soon joined by tears of pain as the light stabbed into her head. Even that was not important. Only Richard was important. Why would he not take her hand? It was his to take.

  “Take her hand, Sir Richard, no one will know it from me.” Margaret’s voice seemed to come from a great distance. Perhaps she ought to get out of bed to find her, but first she must find out why Richard had deserted her when she needed him so much.
/>   As Richard took her hand again, Rosamunde fell once more into a deep sleep.

  “…will be here in two days at the most.” Guy’s voice broke into her dream and Rosamunde awoke. Her room was lit by a single lantern and Guy and Margaret were talking quietly by the entrance. She could not immediately see Richard, but gradually realised that her arm was hanging out of her bed and her fingers were entwined in someone’s hair. It must be Richard’s. She twisted slightly and eventually saw that he was asleep on the ground next to her bed. She stroked his hair, amazed that her fingers obeyed her. She had been ill, but now she was better. She must be better, because Richard was asleep. He would not sleep while she needed him.

  “Who comes?” she asked, but barely recognised the unsteady voice as her own.

  “Your father. I have sent a messenger for him. How do you feel?” Guy spoke quietly, showing no surprise that she had joined in their conversation.

  “How should I feel?”

  “Dead,” stated Richard as he stood up from the floor, smoothing down his ruffled hair. He bowed over her hand and raised it to his lips before placing it back under her covers. “You ate poisonous mushrooms.” He smiled down at her. His now familiar bare face was creased with worry and, it must surely be the lack of light in the tent, but he looked older and more worn.

  “Then I feel very well, all things considered. Thank you Margaret.” She focused on Margaret with difficulty, but could not see the expression on her face.

  “It was none of my doing. Richard recognised the mushrooms and knew the cure. He collected the plants and made the potions.”

  “Then I thank you, my lord.” It was a relief to turn back to him. Her eyes hurt, but she knew that it was almost dark in her pavilion.

  “I failed you Rosamunde. I should have inspected your food.”

  “Surely it was a mistake.” It was hard to concentrate, but she knew that she must help Richard to see that whatever it was that had happened had not been his fault.